Sketch No. 103

These are my people. From the blackened and hallowed abyss of ashes, they rise like curtains of raindrops to my mind. I have a people, a sense of belonging to something somewhat wider than myself.

My words are but a number.

I was born in a place devoid of words, my mother twisting and squirming in the dry, heatless desert of anonymity. My father was a blacksmith, I do believe, but he never came around much. His title, as his occupation, I suppose a dying breed in this modern age of disconnected popularity. My mother was a Youtube star. What, exactly, she starred in, I would never know because she never let me see such things. Said it was too mature for me, whatever that is. I didn’t have any brothers or sisters and, as is true of any teenager of the digital world, I grew up very much alone.

Then Henry came to town.

If I shut my eyes tight enough, I can still see his hog’s breath smile heaving down on my from his six foot something frame. He was a country boy through and through, and when he moved into my neighborhood it was peeks and smiles through the window. I didn’t know well enough to be scared of him, my mother having homeschooled me for fear of what I might find out about her illustrious career. Henry and I would go swimming in the river whenever he skipped school, which was quite often, and chuck pebbles into the water trying to make them dance on the ripples. He even tried walking on water once, said he saw it on the internet somewhere, and I could swear he made it a full clear three steps before sinking with a splash into that cool, clear water.

I never really did believe what they said about him in the papers. Still don’t believe it. I mean, if he really had done all those horrible things, wouldn’t I have been able to smell it from my house?

Makes no difference now, because these are my people. I stand and stretch my arms to embrace the whole crowd as I stand at the podium, my toes itching in my too-tight shoes and nylon stockings. I take a deep breath and begin to speak.